This story is rated NC-17 (adults only). It includes explicit male/male sex. If this is what you came for, scroll down. If it isn't, hit the Back button.
When one has acquired through clandestine means a locker-room photograph of a certain detective, undercover as a baseball player but otherwise under no cover whatsoever, and when despite one's best efforts one has been unable to prevent the photograph from becoming somewhat battered by frequency of consultation, and when one's superior officer's pet wolf has sniffed this photograph out of an apparently secure hiding place and dropped it into the lap of its unwitting model, one may perhaps be forgiven for losing one's composure.
"Oh, dear," Turnbull said.
His face felt too hot and his collar too tight, and he was conscious of a wish to run away, though he rejected this as beneath the dignity of a constable of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Detective Vecchio -- the second Detective Vecchio -- frowned uncomprehendingly at the picture, which was reminiscent of images of Actaeon at the time of his misfortune, and Turnbull's mortification expressed itself in still stronger terms.
"Oh, dear me," Turnbull said.
The wolf threw Turnbull a smug look over his shoulder and trotted off in search of further mischief.
The second Detective Vecchio was still frowning over the photograph, scratching the back of his neck in a puzzled sort of way. Any second he was going to ask some question to which there was no acceptable answer, such as, Where did you get this? or worse yet, Why?
He surprised Turnbull by stating the obvious instead. "So you been looking at the Ray centerfold, huh." He lifted his face, and he was no longer frowning but grinning, as if to say he knew the answer very well, but his grin was conspiratorial, as well. Turnbull began to feel a dawning hope that this episode wasn't going to result in his being sent back to Bonnyville in disgrace.
"Then," the second Detective Vecchio went on, "I'd say you owe me."
"Certainly I'd be very happy to make amends," Turnbull said.
"Yeah, I'll, uh, I'll take it in kind." He gave Turnbull a significant look. Turnbull couldn't think what it could mean. Unless -- well, in any case, he didn't have any naked photographs of himself on hand.
He frowned, puzzled, and the second Detective Vecchio cleared his throat and cast pointed looks at various parts of Turnbull's body until it almost seemed as though he were implying --
Oh. Oh. Oh my. Perhaps he was.
Turnbull raised his hand slowly and tugged his lanyard loose, raising his eyebrows. The second -- that is -- Ray nodded.
Turnbull was already aware that the heat in his face was usually accompanied by a blush of dangerous-looking brick-red hue, and due to an unfortunate incident in the locker rooms after Physical Education, he was also aware that this blush extended most of the way down his chest. But Ray had justice on his side.
Removing his tunic and boots in this watchful presence left him in a humiliating state of semi-tumescence, but he persevered with only a passing thought of his lost dignity.
He tried to think of the queen.
No, that didn't help at all.
When he removed his henley, Ray's eyes widened in a very flattering fashion. "Jesus," he said. "You get that way cutting ice blocks or carving canoes?"
"Gymnastics," Turnbull explained. "Until I pulled a groin muscle, I was a favorite in the 1980 Olympic trials."
Ray's eyes widened further. "Huh," he said. "Keep going."
Turnbull kept going. Ray stared at his thighs with a stunned expression for a moment. Turnbull cleared his throat, and Ray's eyes came back up to his face with only a few detours.
Turnbull found his throat dry. He cleared it again. "Justice would dictate that I offer you the opportunity to take my picture."
"Haven't got my camera with me, damn it." He took a step forward. Turnbull's pulse kicked up another notch. "Anyway," he said, and he put all five fingertips gently against Turnbull's left pectoral, just where his heart was pounding hard enough to make him a little dizzy, "I'm more of what you'd call a hands-on learner." He slid his hand sideways a bit, until his fingers were centimeters away from Turnbull's left nipple, which would have peaked at the proximity if it hadn't been standing up from the moment Ray's pale eyes had fallen upon it.
"In that case," Turnbull said somewhat shakily, "I'm at your service."
Ray grinned toothily at him and sank to his knees, drawing his fingertips down Turnbull's body until they came to rest just in the hollow of his left hipbone. "Likewise," he said.
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March 9, 2005